I kept asking everyone who approached me whether anyone had been hit by the bullets. I didn't get a straight answer. Two ambulances arrived, one with sirens and lights, the other traveling more incognito.
I watched two men and a woman wearing FBI baseball caps examine the sewer drain that was closest to my car. I was asked if I would volunteer to allow my vehicle to be searched. I signed a piece of paper that said I would, and a platoon of forensic investigators descended on the car. I was asked if I would volunteer to allow my hands to be tested for trace metals to determine whether or not I'd recently fired a gun. I signed a piece of paper that said I would, and I was swabbed and sprayed for evidence of gunshot residue.
After about an hour, I was escorted from the gardens adjacent to the tennis house to a location in the mansion for more formal questioning. The formal dining room would have been an appropriate setting but it was still set for lunch. No one was dining. I was led to the back of the house to a sunny room overlooking the rear yard. In other circumstances the setting would have been serene.
I kept telling myself that I was a witness. That was all. But from the queries being tossed my way over the course of about forty-five minutes, my best guess was that the cops were hypothesizing that I might actually have fired the gun before handing it off like a relay runner to the driver of the white Ford van. As the questions became more insistent I started moving with some rapidity toward a decision to demand to call an attorney. The attorney I planned to call would be my wife, an assistant district attorney. Lauren would know what to do, and would know whom to call next.
That's when they told me I was free to go.
Dorothy Levin was waiting for me on the long circular driveway of the mansion.
I asked if she was okay. She assured me that she was but didn't reciprocate by inquiring about my well-being-instead she pumped me for details about my interview with the cops and feds. Before I would tell her anything, I demanded that our conversation be on background.
She took a step back from me and glared at me as though I'd just spit on her.
"What? Background? You're just a witness to what happened. Same as me. Jesus, give me a break. A quote or two isn't going to kill you"
"I don't want my name in the paper." With an incredibly irritating whine, she said, "Poor baby, you don't want to get involved."
"Apparently I am. involved. So are you. I just don't especially want the world to know it."
"Somebody else will find out your name."
The man who had escorted me from the gardens earlier spotted Dorothy flipping open her notebook, a mechanical pencil between her teeth. He walked over briskly and said, "No press in here, ma'am. You're both going to have to exit the grounds."
She wasn't the least bit intimidated. She said, "Today, I'm a witness. Thanks so much for your help."
He pressed.
"Are you a reporter?"
"I said I'm a witness. What's your name? You have ID? Who are you with? Are you legal or rental? Let me get my camera, get a snapshot of you. My camera's in here someplace." She lowered her head to her big bag and started a search-and-rescue mission trying to locate the camera inside. I watched her push the jumble of panty hose out of the way.
The man turned and walked away.
Dorothy stopped her subterfuge.
"I don't actually have a camera. But God almighty I love being a reporter.
Okay, you win. We're on background. What happened in there?" I told her.
She was disappointed, as I assumed she would be.
"That's it?"
"That's it. Except I did hear one FBI agent whispering to another FBI agent that they thought they found the white van that drove away in the King Soopers lot up the street."
"The what?"
"The white van that drove away behind me? They think they found it in a grocery-store parking lot not far from here" She was scribbling, "King what?"
"King Soopers-two o's-it's a supermarket chain."
"Guy must have switched cars in the lot. Smart. I gotta go." She stuffed her pencil back into her bag.
"I'm staying at the Giorgio. You know where that is?"
"No."
She shrugged and laughed.
"Me neither. I hope there's somebody around here who can give me directions."
Near sunset, Lauren sat down beside me on the deck outside our bedroom. There are two decks that face the mountains on our house. One is outside the living room dining room; the other is off our new master bedroom. She had already made me dinner and cleaned up the kitchen. Now she handed me a cognac on ice. I was being pampered. We waited until the sun finished its lazy decline behind the Continental Divide, enjoying the show. She said, "Pretty sunset." For a hundred miles to the north and to the south the clouds were lighting up like coral.
"Gorgeous," I agreed.
"Hon?"
"Yes" "You should have asked for an attorney. Right away." The tone she employed was less scolding than her words.
"If you were questioning me, you wouldn't have wanted me asking for an attorney."
"My point exactly."
"I didn't do anything."
"I wish that mattered more often than it does." She started rubbing my neck with her left hand.
"I'm just glad you're okay. Were you scared?"
"Terrified. More for that reporter from the Post than for myself, though. She was right in the line of fire." I sneezed suddenly, which startled both of us.
She blessed me.
I said, "Right after? You know what was going through my mind? I was thinking about the baby. As soon as that van drove away, my first thought was of the baby. I don't want anything bad to happen to any of us. You know? You have those feelings sometimes?"
She touched my arm.
"I know. Yes, I do. Frequently."
I was startled again as one of the French doors that led to the deck outside the living room opened. We weren't expecting any guests. Reflexively I jumped up and shielded Lauren's abdomen with my body.
"You guys out here? Hey, there you are." Sam Purdy stepped out on the deck.
"Didn't hear Emily barking, was afraid you weren't home. You really should lock your doors." "Hi Sam," I said.
"You scared me."
"I knocked. I said 'yoo-hoo." Hi Lauren. How's the baby? You're feeling just fine, I hope."
"Good, Sam. Thanks. How're Simon and Sherry?"
"Simon's Simon. Kid just breezes through life. Sherry's working too hard.
People die, people want flowers. People get married, people want flowers.
Economy's good, people want flowers. And it's Boulder, so she can't get good help. Hey, where's the dog?"
"Over visiting Jonas across the way. They're becoming pretty tight with each other."
Sam eyed the four-foot expanse that separated the two decks.
"Tell Jonas he has to learn to share. I'm not giving up any claims to Emily."
He pointed at the deck we were on.
"So how do I get from here to there?"
Lauren was afraid Sam was going to climb, or worse, try to jump.
"How about we join you over there. That deck's larger. Get you a brandy, Sam?"
"You got beer? Last time I was here you gave me one with a trout on the label.
I liked that."
"Of course."
Sam Purdy was a detective with the Boulder Police Department. Years ago we met over a case, as adversaries. It had taken a while, but he'd become one of my best friends. We saw eye to eye on almost nothing in life, but it didn't seem to matter. He liked guns, rodeos, fishing, porterhouse steaks, the Milwaukee Brewers, and hockey. I could live with hockey. But I was an advocate of gun control and American Humane, didn't understand piercing fish cheeks with metal spikes for recreation, was trying not to eat much beef, and could never remember what sport the Brewers played.
Still, I'd trust Sam Purdy to help deliver my baby.
Lauren walked to the kitchen to get Sam his Odell's porter. After I had woven through the house to the living room, I found my friend still standing at the rail on the deck. He said, "Heard through the grapevine that you were out dodging bullets today." Hearing it said out loud, I shivered.